I personally am uncomfortable with Barbie’s brazen couture. Friends of the feminist persuasion point to her impossibly perfect dimensions, and limited horizons as the obvious sex kitten for Ken. Less ideologically-driven moms complain about the cost of Barbie and the various play accessories she simply must have. Every last mother I know first allowed the little tramp in the door as an unwelcome birthday gift.
Of course, she stayed in our home because my bright-eyed daughter proclaimed, “Oh, I love Barbie!” The thought that Barbie might be unwelcome never crossed her innocent little mind. Call me weak. But Barbie remained, was fruitful, and multiplied.
Why do women hate Barbie? I would point to the afore-mentioned couture as it is draped across the afore-mentioned dimensions in styles suitable only to Queen Jezebel and her ilk…
For those less sensitive to modesty issues, Barbie certainly brings up bad memories of puberty. The popular crowd in junior high school started with the early bloomers. Them that “had 'em” were in demand, and them that didn't … developed other talents. The vast majority of women were average bloomers, watching the early blossoms look like Barbie in full flirt with Ken. Thus, the fledgling sexual identity of the average woman begins with a Barbie inferiority complex.
The flat-chested console themselves that one should emphasize brain size over bra size. This is true. However, it does not go very far toward reconciling mixed feelings about one's sexuality. The true challenge for many women today is to carve out a personal identity that neither denigrates, nor overly emphasizes, physical attributes.
Those of us who discounted our breasts almost surely also got the message that motherhood was a secondary goal for our adult years. There is only one problem with this idea. Breasts are a necessary and beautiful facet of motherhood. In other words, breasts are not just window dressing. They are useful. Unite the brain with a purpose-filled bosom, and a truly powerful woman emerges.
Sadly, many men seem fixated on the “breasts as playthings” approach to relations between the sexes. (Would a woman producer have thought up Baywatch? I don’t think so.) Breasts, to men, are window dressing, and plenty arousing at that. The fact that breasts are useful seems almost an afterthought. Barbie is a man's woman rather than a woman's woman.
A quick glance at Barbie's wardrobe will reinforce my point. She generally looks like she is headed out to the strip for a “really good time,” complete with sequins and a feather boa. I note that Ken, by contrast, wears spiffy oxfords, dockers and keen sweaters. Even the expensive evening gowns for Barbie display more whimsy than taste.
Of course, we now have “Doctor Barbie”, “Firefighter Barbie” and even “President Barbie”. However, they all dress like adolescent male fantasies. I search out women doctors for myself and my children. Only one has been attired in a clingy mini-dress with spike heels in a coordinating hue, and that was in Southern California. (You can find just about anything in Southern California, if you look hard enough.) At least she had the good fashion sense to ditch the lab coat on top of the outfit. Dr. Barb didn't.
Lest you think I am picking on Mattel, Disney is also a prime offender. Pocahontas (the real one) was about twelve years old. She fell in love and married John Rolfe, not Captain John Smith. Disney portrays her as a svelte, mini-skirted twenty-year-old, seductive and ecologically correct. In one scene, she is actually shown slithering across the screen to music. Real women of my acquaintance do not slither, biblical metaphors notwithstanding. More to the point, they wear clothing that emphasizes their talents and personality, not their bosom.
At least Barbie is limited to expressing the ideas and opinions of my smart little girl. A research project actually showed that Barbie can help young girls develop better “self-esteem” and wider visions of their career opportunities. One might hope so. For the time being, Barbie reveals herself as deeply conflicted, if our daughters happen to be listening to us.
The battle is an internal one, exacerbated by the advertising maxim “Sex sells.” The losers are women and their daughters, who are still trying after all these years to carve out an identity for themselves that gets beyond the “hooter factor.” Real women, and real mothers, know the truth from experience. Women, both in and out of the workplace, are judged by their appearance first and their established competence second.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Life with Barbie is not all psychoanalysis. Barbie is also a blatant motivator for young consumers learning to count money. Best of all, my daughter has gotten an excellent education on the attire I will not tolerate when she is a teen. She has also learned very important girl knowledge. For example, Barbie nail polish is difficult to remove from her favorite sweater. (Ahem!)
Thankfully, I was able to find some suitable religious attire for Sister Barbie. It is a shock to see Barbie looking intelligent and useful for a change. Barbie's perky smile actually looks demure in the habit of a Carmelite, so much so that I laughed out loud. “See,” she seems to be saying, “I really did have half a brain in there. You just missed it because you were fixated on my boobs.”
No, honey, I wasn't. In the real world, you still have to dress like your brain is biggest part of your anatomy.
